


Falling and Missing the Ground

by Loslote



Series: The Olympics Have Always Been A Little Gay [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Anal Sex, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, Getting Together, Gymnast Jackson Whittemore, Gymnast Scott McCall, Gymnast Stiles Stilinski, Ice Dancer Derek Hale, M/M, Men's Artistic Gymnastics, Versatile Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loslote/pseuds/Loslote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had two favorite things about the Olympic Village: the fruit bowl stocked with condoms with little miniature vaulting tables on the packaging, and the Starbucks stands in the lobbies of every single building and on the corner of every single street. Right now, having to be awake and moving at five-thirty in the goddamn morning after a late night of drinking and dancing with both the men’s and the women’s gymnastics teams, he was especially fond of the Starbuckses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling and Missing the Ground

Stiles had never really made sense as a gymnast. In a sport where most athletes were shorter and stockier, heavily muscled and powerful, Stiles’ long, lean, and lanky build raised a lot of eyebrows. He couldn’t tell you how often someone had asked him, “Wouldn’t you prefer, like, track, or something less...gymnastics?” Even more than that, his ADHD left him often unable to focus as his mind leapt from topic to topic, and he would often start a new sentence before finishing the first one. Most people scoffed at the idea of a beanpole gymnast with attention issues. Stiles himself couldn’t really explain his success.

Stiles started gymnastics when he was seven, and just diagnosed with ADHD. His mother had thought it would be a good way to burn off energy, and maybe (hopefully) teach him better balance along the way. He’d stunned his instructors with his flexibility and fearlessness, flinging himself hand over heels into each new flip. When his mother died, he had thrown himself into competitive gymnastics, learning the apparatuses and putting together routines. 

By the age of sixteen, Stiles was widely recognized as one of the best junior gymnasts in the world on the pommel horse and parallel bars. He seemed to fly, especially on the pommel horse, flowing through some of the most difficult poses fluidly and flawlessly. At seventeen, the US gymnastics coach considered taking him to compete in the Olympics, but ultimately decided to keep him as an alternate, wary that such a young competitor would crumble under the pressure.

Now, though, at twenty-one, Stiles was indisputably one of the best male gymnasts in the world. He hadn’t been beaten on the pommel horse in three years, and he and one of the German gymnasts had been trading the world championship gold in parallel bars back and forth for the past four. He was almost as good on the high bar, his flexibility and precision placing him among the top eight high bar gymnasts world-wide, and he was consistently decent when it came to vault and floor exercise. Only the rings posed the occasional problem for him. 

Stiles had always thought of himself as primarily a pommel and parallel bars guy, though, and so while the news that he had qualified for the individual all-arounds probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise, it did throw him for a bit of a loop.

It didn’t help that Jackson, one of his teammates - and, worse, roommate - at the Olympics, was visibly upset that he wouldn’t be one of the two US all-around competitors. Despite borderline boring routines, Jackson was without question one of the physically strongest gymnasts on the team. Jackson had known he couldn’t have competed with Scott, America’s gymnastics sweetheart, but he had clearly thought that he should have been able to beat out Stiles for the second spot. He had been furious when he had qualified with a lower score than Stiles’, leaving him out of the all-around competition entirely. 

Stiles guiltily enjoyed that victory. He and Jackson had trained under the same coach back in Beacon Hills for years, and they'd really never gotten along. He tried not to rub it in, though. That would be going too far, even though it was Jackson.

Now, though, with the Opening Ceremonies and qualifying events over, finals not set to start for another couple of days, and only so much training time each in the limited gym space, there just wasn’t much to do while they waited. So, naturally, the men’s team decided the best thing to do would be to show up to the women’s team’s training session for moral support.

The two all-around athletes from the women’s team, Kira Yukimura and Allison Argent, were currently spotting each other on the uneven bars. Scott was basically hanging over the rail with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Stiles wasn’t sure which of the two girls his friend was crushing on, and to be honest, he wasn’t convinced Scott knew, either. Isaac, meanwhile, was sitting back in his seat, arms crossed, and a giant pout on his face. He’d been running after Scott all through training week, and had taken Scott’s crush very hard. Scott, of course, couldn’t be more oblivious.

Stiles shook his head fondly and, abandoning Scott and Isaac to their little drama, moved over to join Jackson, where he was posturing in front of Lydia, his now permanently off again ex-girlfriend. Ever since the last Winter Olympics, Lydia had started dating Laura Hale. Two years out, they were still one of the most famous power couples in the country - unsurprising, since Laura was the best snowboarder in the world and Lydia and Derek had won the hearts of America with their ice dancing. They were at the Summer Olympics, of course, supporting Laura's younger sister, Cora, from the women's team. 

Of course, not even a water-tight relationship could discourage Stiles from trying to one-up Jackson when it came to seeking Lydia's favor.

“Lydia, light of my life, how have you been?” Stiles asked, leaning seductively against the half-wall between himself and Lydia. He promptly slipped, his elbow skidding out from under him, and sprawled across the partition, blinking in vague alarm up at Lydia.

Jackson’s cackling was not at all attractive. Dickwipe.

“Stiles,” Lydia drawled. Stiles recognized the resignation in her eyes - which he considered a big step up from annoyance, thank you. “Have you met Laura?” She smiled fondly at the woman whose arm was wrapped around her waist.

“Good to meet you!” Stiles said cheerfully. “I have heard good things. You know, from the Internet and all that, it’s not like Cora talks about you much. I mean. I don’t think I meant that.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jackson wheezed, practically clutching his side, “what the hell, Stilinski?”

Laura looked taken aback. “Um. Right,” she said, looking to Lydia for help. Lydia heaved a sigh.

“Laura, this is Stiles. He’s on the men’s gymnastics team. He’s always like this, don’t worry about it.”

Stiles beamed at Lydia from where he was still leaning over the partition. “Aw, I knew you loved me,” he said, fluttering his eyelashes at her. Lydia didn’t quite smile, but the left corner of her mouth twitched, and Stiles knew that meant that she was only pretending she didn’t find him funny.

“Oh, hey, Cora’s taking her turn on vault,” Jackson interrupted, nodding towards where Cora was pushing off from where she’d been talking to her brother, Derek, by the sideline wall and heading over to the start of the vault runway. Derek wandered back over to Laura and Lydia, casually dropping kisses on both of their cheeks.

“Hey, Derek,” Lydia said, returning the kiss. “You know Jackson; this is Stiles Stilinski. He’s one of Jackson’s teammates. Stiles, this is Derek.”

Stiles meant to protest being introduced as Jackson’s teammate, really, he did, it’s just - how was he supposed to be able to say anything coherent to that face? That fucking, absurdly beautiful, perfect face?

He was so fucked.

0 0 0  
0 0

Stiles had two favorite things about the Olympic Village: the fruit bowl stocked with condoms with little miniature vaulting tables on the packaging, and the Starbucks stands in the lobbies of every single building and on the corner of every single street. Right now, having to be awake and moving at five-thirty in the goddamn morning after a late night of drinking and dancing with both the men’s and the women’s gymnastics teams, he was especially fond of the Starbuckses.

“Good morning,” he heard from behind him. He spun around, cursing softly as a bit of his coffee splashed out and onto his hand. 

“Morning,” he managed, staring at a Derek Hale who looked far too awake to be completely human. “Why are you up so early?”

“Lydia has friends in one of the marathons today,” Derek said, rolling his eyes fondly, “which apparently means I have to be there, too. What about you? I didn’t think there were any gymnastics events until women’s teams around noon.”

“Jackson brought his hook-up back to our room last night, and they tried to have morning sex while I was still in the room,” Stiles said wryly. “I booked it out of there as fast as I could.”

Derek burst into laughter. “I’m sorry, that sucks,” he snorted. “I’d offer you my bed so you could catch up on a couple of hours, but it’s outside the Village, since I’m not actually competing.”

“That’s alright, thanks anyway,” Stiles said as the barista handed over Derek’s coffee. “Have fun at the marathon.”

“Thanks,” Derek said, taking a sip and closing his eyes happily, letting out a contented hum. Stiles swallowed dryly, burying his own face in his coffee in the hopes that Derek wouldn’t catch the blush spreading across his face. That man had no right to be so attractive. It just wasn’t fair.

0 0 0  
0 0

The men’s team’s finals went smoothly for the American team through their first few events. Leading off, Scott, Jackson, and Boyd put forward a great combined score on rings, with Boyd taking the second highest score overall, and a decent - arguably even good - performance from Stiles, Scott, and Isaac on the parallel bars, their team was firmly settled among the top five, battling the teams from Germany, China, Ukraine, and Japan to medal. 

Then came the floor exercises. 

Jackson led off, but a few misplaced feet in his landings left him a few points short of his usual score. It wouldn’t have been a huge deal, but Stiles got nervous when he saw the score, and followed it up with a slew of similar mistakes, bringing in a score just under fifteen points. Boyd, who usually never scored higher than a 14.75, pulled a truly herculean effort and landed a 14.81, but the damage had been done, sending the American team down to fourth place with only three events left.

Stiles was almost panicking as they rotated over to the vault. 

Isaac and Boyd vaulted first, both doing well and landing solid scores in the sixteens. Stiles felt himself relaxing as Jackson stepped up to the runway. He stood and cheered with the rest of the team as Jackson bounced on his feet, waving to the crowd with a huge smirk on his face before starting his run. When he reached the vaulting table, though, Stiles barely held himself back from yelling in shock when Jackson’s left hand slipped, sending his left shoulder down slightly lower than his right, leaving his flight path slanted and landing him with only one foot inside the landing strip.

“Fuck,” Stiles heard Boyd say fervently from behind him.

“That’s, what, a one-point deduction?” Stiles asked, turning frantically to face him. “Maybe one point five?”

“He’ll be lucky if he scores a fourteen point nine,” Isaac said quietly. “His form off the table was all wrong.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groaned.

“Thank God it’s pommel next,” Boyd said. “He’ll need the time to recover before high bar.”

And so Stiles found himself staring down the pommel only minutes after Jackson’s disastrous vault - a 14.72, even worse than they’d hoped - with the American team in fifth and only this and the high bar to go. Stiles threw himself into his routine and just let his body take over. He fell immediately into a good rhythm, his hips swinging easily and his legs extended and balanced. He moved into his hand stands fluidly, his weight centered nicely over his hands, and by the time he got to the dismount, he was able to haul himself up and over easily, landing perfectly on the mat.

He straightened with a huge smile, a weight lifted off his chest. They still might not win, but dammit, this is why he competed - there was nothing like the feeling of a routine well done, the satisfaction of giving the apparatus your all. This moment, with his team cheering and the crowd on their feet, this was worth all the stress and pressure the Olympics could throw at him.

Scott and Isaac followed him on the pommel with decent performances, and at the end of the round, the American team had pulled back into second place behind the Japanese team - it would have been third, but for a nasty fall from the high bar from the Germans. Going into the high bar, Stiles allowed himself to hope that they could pull it out after all.

The high bar went well, with solid performances from Stiles and Jackson, and a just over sixteen point performances from Scott. At the end of the day, Stiles stood with his teammates on the Olympic podium, bending down to receive his silver medal. His cheeks hurt from smiling so widely, and he slung his arms around Boyd’s and Scott’s shoulders to keep himself from floating off into space out of happiness.

0 0 0  
0 0

All-arounds started off for Stiles with vault, and he flew through his vault - a Roche with a handspring entry and a double salto forward - with relative ease. His score was somewhere in the high fifteens, which was pretty good for him on vault and left him in third place overall. Scott, starting out on high bar, had scored in the mid-fifteen range, and was sitting in eighth place. For Stiles, the rings and high bar also flew by, his scores enough to keep him roughly in the same position on the leaderboards, and it wasn’t until he hits the parallel bars that the nerves really kicked in. In a way, just knowing that rings and vault weren’t his strengths made them less nerve-wracking, an irrationality which he cursed himself for as he sits on the sidelines waiting for his turn, sweating literal buckets as his mind started racing. 

From behind him, in the stands, the sound of someone whisper-yelling his name broke him out of his mental loop. He craned his neck and tried to figure out who was calling him, his gaze finally landing on Derek, who was not very subtly leaning on the diving bar. Stiles got up and hurried over.

“What’s up?” he asked, glancing around to make sure his coach was preoccupied.

“Just thought you could use a distraction,” Derek said.

“Oh. Is it that obvious?” Stiles asked, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand.

“No, no, don’t worry,” Derek insisted, “I’ve just been there before, and I at least had Laura around to distract me most of the time.”

Stiles laughed sheepishly. “Yeah, no, I’m kind of freaking out.”

“You’ll do great,” Derek said, patting the hand Stiles had resting on the dividing bar. “You’re amazing out there, you know? It’s like you don’t even know how to fall, you’re so at home in the air.”

Stiles’ mouth dropped, and he stared at him for a long moment before his coach was calling for him, gesturing for him to get ready. Stiles flailed a little at Derek on his way back to his coach, and he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to get across, but Derek smiled and waved like he understood anyway.

0 0 0  
0 0

The parallel bars went very well, and Stiles’ score of 15.82 was enough to push him into third place. As he was moving over to the floor exercise, though, the unmistakable sound of a fall and a collective gasp from the crowd drew his attention across the arena to the pommel horse. As the athlete who had fallen finished re-chalking his hands and turned back around, Stiles drew in a sharp breath of air and felt his stomach plummet into somewhere around his feet. 

_Scott had fallen off the pommel horse._

Scott’s potential pommel score was only 14.8; with the deduction for the fall, any break of form which had preceded it, and the usual deductions, he’d probably only score a 13.5 at best. While it was still possible for him to recover and place, he would probably not win all-arounds after that. Stiles watched with wide, horrified eyes as Scott finished the his routine cleanly, all smiles and waves to the crowd, like the puppy dog he was. Scott wasn’t going to win. He’d be lucky to place. Stiles had thought Scott was sure to win. Everyone had thought Scott was sure to win. Stiles took his place on the sidelines of the floor routine with shaking hands as he tried to reorient himself in a terrifying new world where he could not assume that Scott McCall would win all-arounds.

After that, nerves about his own performance were miniscule in comparison. After he finished his floor routine cleanly, passing Scott and pushing up close to the first place competitor, Stiles found himself almost too numb for nerves. As the announcer called his name, he walked up to the pommel horse, waved to the judges, and mounted without a single thought in his head.

If you asked him afterwards, Stiles wouldn’t be able to remember anything about that last routine. Everything between stepping up to chalk his hands and waiting with his coach for his scores was a blur, time seeming to at once freeze and fly past him, skipping away from him in both directions at once. All he remembered were snippets, moments when he briefly happened to sync up with the world around him: the swing of his hips as his legs straddled the pommel horse, the taut leather under his hands as he pushed off for his dismount, the yielding of the mat under his feet as he landed, faces in the crowd as the cheering swelled around him - Scott, Allison, Jackson, Lydia, _Derek_ …

His memories only started to flow together again when his score was announced, the voice cooly announcing a score of 16.008. Stiles nearly collapsed in relief - he only scored above a sixteen in competition on a good day, and he’d needed at least a 15.97 to take the lead from the German forerunner. There were still a couple of competitors left to perform, but only one - a French gymnast who legitimately spoke no English and who had looked at Stiles strangely when he’d tried to introduce himself - had the potential to overtake him, and even he was unlikely to score the 16.23 he would need. Stiles waited, his chest tight and his knuckles white on the railing - for the last score.

As the number - something in the fourteen range, Stiles couldn’t hear after that over the sudden cheering from the stands - sounded out over the arena, Stiles staggered to his feet with his mouth hanging unattractively open. He faintly heard his name being announced as the gold medalist over the loudspeakers, and couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed that they were using “Władysław Stilinski” instead of Stiles Stilinski, like he usually was.

Stiles remembered the hugging, screaming, and back-slapping which followed as a jumble, mixed together with an endless stream of faces and words. He remembered clinging to Scott for a long moment, and would always love Scott for the genuinely happy smile on his face as he celebrated Stiles’ win and his own bronze medal. He remembered Jackson punching his arm and muttering a “Good job, Stilinski”. 

Amid the chaos and celebration, Stiles somehow noticed one particular absence. None of the arms passing him around, none of the voices shouting his name, none of the faces crowding in around him were Derek’s. Craning his neck, Stiles spotted him, still in the stands, on his feet with pure joy plastered all over his face. Their eyes met for one blazing moment before Stiles was jostled away, and he lost sight of Derek in the press of the crowd.

If you asked him afterwards, that moment would be the only one from that entire day Stiles would be able to remember in perfect clarity.

0 0 0  
0 0

Later that night, when most of the team decided to go out drinking in celebration, Stiles shocked everyone when he declined to join them. Instead, he begged Derek’s phone number from Lydia and proceeded to write the same text forty different ways and not send any of them. Now, with Jackson out for the evening (and probably the whole night, judging from his wink and pointed “see you tomorrow” as he left the room), Stiles was perched on the edge of his bed, staring nervously at version number forty-eight, “u wanna hang out”, and trying to work up the courage to press send.

This was ridiculous. Stiles had just won an Olympic gold medal, he could handle one little text message!

Stiles let out a loud groan and flopped backwards onto the bed, flinging his arms up over his head in despair. The phone flew out of his hand and hit the headboard, letting out a tiny, ominous beep. Stiles froze, then scrambled to retrieve it, grabbing it just in time to see the ‘message sent’ bubble pop onto the screen. 

“Shit,” Stiles yelped. The ‘message delivered’ bubble replaced ‘message sent’. “Shit!”

Almost immediately, though, his phone beeped again with a new message. Stiles flailed wildly before opening it, a warmth rising from his chest as he read Derek’s text - “sure” - followed almost immediately by a second text - “where?”. Stiles’ thumbs flew across the keyboard and he sent off a response - “my room? no roommate 2nite” before laying back on his bed with a happy sigh.

That’s right, world - Olympic gold medal athlete Stiles Stilinski had a maybe-date with _Derek fucking Hale_. Fuck yeah.

0 0 0  
0 0

Derek shows up about half an hour later after Stiles texts him with a bottle of cupcake-flavored vodka, a jug of pineapple juice, and a bemused expression.

“Cupcake flavored?” Stiles asked, holding back a laugh as he examined the bottle.

“Laura made me,” Derek sighed. “Said you needed to celebrate properly.”

“Well, thank her for me, I guess,” Stiles said, opening the bottles and pouring out a pineapple-cupcake screwdriver into one of the travel mugs companies liked to send him in the mail in the hopes of free publicity - this one from, of all places, Crayola. He downed half the cup. The taste wasn’t bad - cheap and shitty, but not unappealing. He poured one for Derek into a mug from some hat making company from, like, Vermont or something. Derek clinked their mugs together before he took a sip.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Stiles asked, sitting down on his bed and pulling out his laptop. “I have the Avengers, or...um, that might be it, actually.”

“The Avengers is fine,” Derek said with a smile. He sat down on the bed next to Stiles, and they shuffled around a bit until they were both propped up against the headboard with the laptop balanced across both their laps. They only made it twenty minutes into the movie before the laptop was carefully placed on the nightstand with the travel mugs, their lips were on each others’, and their hands were exploring each others’ bodies. Derek was the first to pull back, tugging his shirt up over his head.

“Fuck,” Stiles groaned, running an appreciative hand over Derek’s abs. He wriggled out of his own, a little less gracefully.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek sighed, raking his eyes up Stiles’ body. “Top or bottom?”

“I’ve still got individuals, I can’t bottom for another four days,” Stiles sighed sadly, eying Derek’s crotch speculatively. 

“That is completely fine with me,” Derek grinned. “You’ve got lube, right?”

“So much,” Stiles nodded, reaching over to dig through his nightstand, “they gave me, like, three bottles, I’m pretty sure I’m set for life.”

“Great,” Derek said, a sharp grin on his face. He sprawled backwards, shimmying out of his jeans and underwear. Stiles groaned at the sight of his cock, a little more than half hard already, lying thick and flushed against his belly and angled slightly to the left. He spread his legs, his torso propped up against the headboard, his hand working casually over his cock.

“Oh my god, Derek,” Stiles groaned, shucking his own jeans and boxers, “are you serious right now?” Derek snorted.

“Yeah, pretty serious,” he said, a cocky smile on his face. Stiles scrambled over the bed, bracing himself over the other man and kissing the smile right off his face. As he pulled back, breathless, he moved down Derek’s neck, biting tiny hickies on his way and giving special attention to Derek’s nipples. He flicked his tongue over one, rolling the other between his fingers, until Derek was whining and begging him to touch his cock. 

“Alright, alright,” Stiles said, breathless, as he moved further down Derek’s frankly improbably perfect stomach until he reached the tip of his cock, which was by now straining and leaking. As he lubed up his fingers, Stiles sucked the tip of Derek’s cock into his mouth, humming at the explosion of taste across his tongue. Derek was musky and only a little bitter, and Stiles happily swallowed him down, bobbing his head up and down while dragging his tongue over the vein along the underside of Derek’s cock. Derek’s hands were tangled in Stiles’ hair, not pushing, just holding on, and when he glanced up, Derek’s head was thrown back and his groans almost seemed to be ripped out of him.

Stiles traced one lubed finger around Derek’s rim as he continued to bob his head, letting Derek adjust to the temperature of the lube for a second before slowly pushing in the first finger. Derek tugged his head up and off.

“Not gonna last,” he panted. “Wanna feel you in me when I come.”

Stiles groaned at that, bending his finger reflexively and drawing a shocked shout out of Derek. “Yeah, there?” he gasped, pulling out the finger just long enough to add another, quickly finding the spot again and rubbing it relentlessly as Derek squirmed underneath him.

“Oh, fuck, Stiles,” Derek groaned, trying to fuck back onto Stiles’ fingers. Stiles added a third quickly, scissoring them to make sure Derek was as stretched as possible, before pulling them out and rolling on a condom. Derek grabbed a pillow, shoving it under his hips, and spread his legs, hooking his feet over Stiles’ waist and dragging him in. “Want you in me, come on,” he growled. Stiles grinned, positioning himself with one hand and bracing his weight over Derek’s chest with the other. He caught Derek’s lips in a burning kiss as he pushed into his warm, grasping heat.

Derek broke the kiss first, slamming his head back against the pillow with a bitten-off curse. Stiles paused, buried fully inside Derek with his balls up against Derek’s ass. “You okay?” he asked.

“So good, shit,” Derek hissed. “You feel...fuck. Fucking move, Stiles, goddamn.” Stiles grinned at that, drawing out slowly before shoving back in. Derek growled impatiently, rolling his hips back against Stiles’ cock, setting a quick, pounding rhythm that Stiles immediately got to work matching. “Next time,” Derek panted, “I’m just gonna fucking ride you, work that cock so good, fuck, you feel so good in me,” Derek bit his lip, cutting himself off, as Stiles got a hand around his dick, the left over lube easily stroking him in a counterpoint rhythm to Stiles’ thrusts. “Fuck, gonna come,” Derek spat out.

“Yeah, me too,” Stiles panted, speeding up as he felt his orgasm boiling up inside him, barely holding it off until he felt Derek start to contract around him, his walls milking Stiles’ dick as he spurted between them, his back arching up to meet Stiles’ chest. Stiles let go a second later, filling the condom with a loud curse, fucking into Derek a couple last times before drawing out. He tied off the used condom, flinging it somewhere in a direction where there may or may not be a trash can, he honestly didn’t remember, and collapsed next to Derek.

“Damn,” he sighed happily. Derek laughed breathlessly, rolling over and gathering Stiles up into his arms so that Stiles’ back pressed against Derek’s chest.

“Sleep,” Derek ordered, wriggling them under the covers.

“Shouldn’t we clean up sooner rather than later?” Stiles protested halfheartedly.

“If you want to get out of bed, be my guest,” Derek drawled. “I am going to sleep.”

“Mm, fine,” Stiles conceded, snuggling up into the other man and closing his eyes. “G’night.”

Derek gently kissed the back of Stiles’ neck. “Good night.”

0 0 0  
0 0

Stiles may not have made sense as a gymnast, but from the first moment he and Derek went public with their relationship, the whole world agreed: the two of them absolutely made sense as a couple.

Stiles left the Olympics with a team silver, gold from the all-arounds and pommel horse, and a bronze from the parallel bars. Derek continued ice dancing for another six years, only retiring after he and Lydia finally won their gold medal. Stiles, however, retired less than a year after his first and only Olympics. An old shoulder injury had flared up, and the doctor had warned him that continued competition could lead to a permanent loss of motion in his left shoulder. After retiring, Stiles founded a gymnastics camp marketed towards queer youth, expanding it to include snowboarding, skiing, and ice skating once Derek, Laura and Lydia joined on as staff. His training center became known as one of the best training camps for future Olympic athletes.

Derek proposed at the first Olympics Stiles attended as a coach. Stiles cried on national television. It was beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, guys - I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
